Miss Mary's Book of Dreams

by Sophie Nicholls

  Now Fabia slid her scissors from their velvet sheath. They were her silver scissors, the ones that Maadar-Bozorg had given her for her fourteenth birthday, made in the shape of a swan, the blades a beak, opening and shutting and the handles engraved in the shape of wings, closing and opening, opening and closing.

  She began to cut. The moment when the blades first made contact with the cloth was always the most difficult. If you leaned in at that moment, putting your ear up close, you could just hear the fabric let out a little sigh as it gave itself up to the steel. Aaaaaah. The release as each taut thread met with the edge of the blades. A little out-breath.

  After that first cut, her courage always grew. Her movements gathered confidence, became swifter, more fluid as she let the undulating pattern of the fabric itself guide her.

  Here, just here, was where the neckline would be, the front of the dress gathering into a deep yoke. Here was a sleeve, cut narrow to the elbow and falling soft and wide from the wrist. Yes, that was right. Just so.

  This was a dress that would be warm, even in the harshest Yorkshire winters, but light and cool in summer. It would flow gently over the wearer’s hips, swirl around her easily as she moved, the colours surrounding her in a soft shimmer.

  As she cut and smoothed, what Fabia saw in her mind’s eye was Ella. Always Ella. Her brown hair tumbling over her shoulders, tangling with these colours, her slender white wrists in the wide-winged sleeves. She could wear this over her jeans. She could wear it anywhere at all. It would be simple and easy, just as Ella liked her clothes to be.

  The natural dyes were sumptuous and softly muted at the same time. Just right for her daughter. And into the hem, weighted with its tiny beads of garnet and agate and turquoise, Fabia would sew the words that would keep Ella safe.

  Sleep, sweet daughter of mine, she said to herself as she sewed. Sleep and dream.

  As the waxing moon climbed higher in the sky, Fabia let the dress shape itself. She hummed a little under her breath as she worked. She heard Enzo’s voice, her beloved Enzo: ‘Do you like jazz, bellissima? Listen. This is my favourite. Ella Fitzgerald. Magnifica. What a goddess. Don’t you love it, how you feel it all through you, carissima, like . . . like e-lec-tricity?’

  The night air drifted through the open window bringing with it the scents and sounds of the city. It was the kind of evening, Fabia thought, when it seemed as if the sky reached down and touched the earth. You could feel the sleeping city breathing all around you.

  She took the almost finished dress in her lap and threaded her needle with silver embroidery silk and began her tiny hidden stitches: Listen, my daughter. Feel it all through you. Listen to what is weaving itself. Possibilities. New dreams.

  And with each stitch, Fabia knew with a little more certainty, as she listened to that still, small space inside her, exactly what it was that she would do next.

  26

  To manifest your heart’s desires: Gather rosebuds with the morning dew still on them. Steep them in a dish of rainwater. Rub a drop of it between your palms and drink the remainder.

  – Miss Mary’s Book of Dreams

  The river was high tonight. In the darkness, Ella could hear it rushing past, swollen with rain, as she hurried along the path. She was late. Grace had been unusually clingy, cross at being left behind, despite having the attentions of both Mamma and Maadar-Bozorg.

  But Billy had been clear. Seven p.m. Ella still had his invitation in her pocket. She touched it now, as she walked along, like a lucky charm.

  It was a small piece of white card, cut in the shape of a heart and on it he’d written simply: Meet me on the bridge. 7 p.m.

  She’d found it on the breakfast table this morning, propped against the coffee pot. She knew immediately, of course, which bridge he meant.

  She rounded the bend in the riverbank and the bridge came into view, a span of steel and wood, glittering under the moon.

  And now she could see him, oddly small from here, standing right at the centre, and she felt a quiver of something – excitement, nerves, anticipation.

  All those years ago, this is where they’d walked together, that awful night of the Cushworths’ party. This is where he’d first tried to kiss her – and where she’d run off into the night, her stomach churning, her shoes slapping the path, the river a blur of tears. And over there, past the bridge and further on, where the grass grew taller and the boats were moored, that was where they’d dived and swum, where they’d lolled on the swimming platform all those long days of summer, and where she’d hung suspended from the rope swing before dropping into the water, letting it close over her, delicious and cold. She remembered how she’d tricked him, keeping herself down there in that dim, green world for as long as she could until the blood pounded in her ears; and the way his face had looked when she’d burst up again, laughing and gasping.

  ‘Billy,’ she called out now, keeping her voice low. He’d already turned at the sound of her footsteps, was walking towards her, grinning.

  ‘You came.’

  ‘Of course I did.’

  ‘I didn’t know if you would. Whether you’d think it was all a bit daft.’

  Ella reached up and touched his cheek. ‘Not daft, no. Very sweet.’

  ‘I was just remembering,’ he said. ‘It all seems like a long time ago.’

  ‘It was a long time ago. I’ve been counting. Thirteen years, to be exact.’

  He took her hand. ‘Can I kiss you now?’ he said. ‘I mean, I’m just checking. I don’t want you to yell at me. You’re not going to run off?’

  She smiled and offered her face up to him. They held each other for a long time. Beneath them, the water seemed to grow quieter, calmer. They heard the call of a barn owl, saw its white swoop over the water. The moon drifted behind a bank of cloud.

  Afterwards, they walked, hand in hand along the riverbank, back into town.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Ella watched his face.

  ‘Surprise,’ he said. ‘You’ll see.’

  ‘They came up the steps at Ousegate and headed across town. The streets were half empty. Tourist season was over and it was too cold for people to be hanging about.

  They walked mainly in silence and it didn’t feel awkward anymore. Instead, Ella felt memories flooding her, thick and fast. Here was the place where they’d come with Grace, that first weekend she’d learned to walk, where she’d fallen in the grass and laughed. Here was the restaurant where Mamma had told them that she was giving them the lease of the shop and where David had insisted on champagne to celebrate their new beginnings. Here was the corner where Billy had first waited to walk home with her after school. And here was Petergate, where they’d posted all the fliers, the day before Mamma’s shop first opened.

  She was so lost in thought that she hardly noticed when they turned into Grape Lane and Billy ducked under the archway to the courtyard. A lozenge of wobbly orange light fell across the cobbles. Ella stopped, confused. She looked up at the windows of their flat, saw the silhouette of Mamma moving in their kitchen.

  ‘Here,’ said Billy. ‘This is where we’re going.’ He slipped the keys out of his pocket, opened the shop door. ‘I’ve got something to show you,’ and he nudged her through the doorway.

  The shop was in darkness, except for strings of fairy lights draped over the tops of the bookcases. In the centre of the room, there was a small table, covered with a crisp white cloth and set for two: silver cutlery, wine glasses and a vase with a single yellow rose.

  Billy pulled out a chair.

  ‘Madame,’ he said, with a mock flourish. ‘Please. Do have a seat.’

  He lit the row of tea lights lined up along the counter. He took a bottle of wine from the little fridge in the cafe corner and filled their glasses.

  ‘There’s food warming in the upstairs kitchen,’ he said. He checked his watch. ‘In fact, it’ll be ready in just a few moments.’

  She smiled. ‘You’re very organised. How did you manage to plan all
this?’

  ‘Well, I had a little help.’ He shrugged. ‘I thought if we retraced our steps this evening, and if we came back here, here to where it all started, it would be easier for us to just . . . well, be you and me for a while. I thought that then you might believe me when I tell you that this, this is what it’s all about. This is where I first fell in love with you, El. You were standing right there.’ He pointed to the bottom of the stairs that led up to the tiny sitting room. ‘You were wearing jeans and a black T-shirt. Your hair was all loose around your shoulders.’ He closed his eyes. ‘I remember it exactly. You were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.’

  ‘Billy –’

  ‘Look, I just wanted to say that I’m sorry if I’ve not been here for you. Properly here for you, this past couple of years. I’m stupid. I can be so . . . such an idiot sometimes. I always assume you’re OK. I always forget how damn proud you are. That you’d never ask for help, not in a million years. And I can see now how hard it’s been for you. But I do love you, El. More than I’ve ever loved anyone. Well, except Grace, of course.’

  Ella looked at him. ‘I love you, too,’ she said.

  ‘Do you think . . . well, do you think we’re going to be OK? If we keep talking? If we promise not to have any secrets? Will you tell me when you need more help, when I’m being stupid, when there’s something bothering you? Because I’m terrified.’ She saw that his hands were shaking. ‘I really don’t want to lose you.’

  The moon shone in through the window, catching the glass droplets of the chandelier, throwing fat sequins of light around the room.

  There was an old song that Mamma used to sing. Ella could hear it now, the way Mamma would hum it under her breath: When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie . . . Scusa me, but you see . . .

  ‘Yes,’ she said quickly. ‘Yes. Yes to all that. Yes.’

  She reached across the table and took his hand and pressed it to her lips.

  *

  ‘David, it’s me.’

  He’d been watching TV. She could hear it in the background.

  ‘Darling. One moment . . .’ It went quiet.

  ‘Well, hello, stranger.’ His voice was loud with happiness. ‘I was beginning to think –’

  ‘I know. David, I might not be able to talk for long. I just managed to get Grace to sleep but she’s a bit unsettled. Maadar-Bozorg and I are babysitting.’

  ‘Oh, listen to you.’ She could hear him smiling. ‘You sound so . . . happy. So at home.’

  Fabia felt her stomach lurch. ‘Well, actually, that’s what I wanted to talk about.’

  She could almost hear him holding his breath.

  ‘I wanted to say –’

  ‘You’re not coming back, are you?’

  Fabia laughed. ‘That’s just it. I knew you were going to think that. But I am. I am.’

  David let out an audible sigh. ‘Really? Gosh, I’m sorry. I must sound a bit . . . well, desperate. It’s just that I’ve had too much time to think here. I’ve been going over and over it in my head. Thinking what an idiot I’ve been for not – Well, look, anyway, that’s not what matters. This isn’t the time, is it, to have this kind of conversation. So . . . When?’

  ‘Soon. In a week or so. And I’m going to bring Maadar-Bozorg back with me. If that’s OK?’

  ‘Of course, of course. Great idea.’

  ‘And, David?’

  ‘Yes, darling.’

  ‘What you asked me. Before I left. I’ll give you my answer then. When I see you. OK?’

  There was a silence. Then David’s voice. It sounded as if he was on the brink of tears. ‘Yes, of course, darling. I just can’t wait to see you again. I’ve missed you.’

  ‘Me too. Buona notte, amore.’

  ‘Yes. Yes. Goodbye.’

  *

  In her narrow hallway, Bryony paused for a moment, listening. The clock on the living room mantelpiece – her mother’s wedding present from a favourite cousin – began to chime. Eight o’clock. Not a moment to lose. The clock’s gentle tick had always annoyed Ed. It kept him awake at night, so he’d said, and so she’d eventually let it wind down. Now that he was gone, Bryony had restored it to its rightful place, between a Chinese vase – another of her mother’s treasured possessions – and a potted spider plant.

  She examined her reflection in the hall mirror, smoothing a strand of hair from her forehead. Lately, she’d taken to wearing lipstick in a rather daring shade of red. She took one from her handbag now, uncapped its shiny gold casing and ran it over her lips, then pressed them together. Her reflected self smiled back at her in the dress of crimson silk that Fabia had made.

  ‘This, darling, is perfect for your colouring.’ Fabia had smiled, when Bryony expressed her doubts. ‘Everyone should own at least one red dress in their lives. It’s all about getting the shade right. For you, this nice, deep red. Plenty of warmth. And the silk throws light on the face. See?’

  And as Fabia had held the fabric up against her, draping it at the shoulder, gathering handfuls of it in at the waist, talking through a mouthful of pins about how she’d put a seam here and a detail there, shaping the silk with expert fingers, Bryony had looked at herself again. Perhaps she wasn’t quite past it, after all. She certainly looked less . . . well, tired.

  Now she bent and slipped on the black suede ankle boots with the elegant little heel. They made her feel instantly taller, more graceful somehow. She took the pin of emerald green feathers from its wrapping of tissue and fastened it carefully in the dip of her neckline. The dress was a bit low cut. She’d been worried that it showed too much cleavage. But the pin just finished it off, the crystals glittering in the light from the hall lamp. She was certain that Fabia would approve.

  Bryony loved the park at this time in the morning, just as the sun was rising from the tops of the trees and before it filled up with dog walkers and people on their way to work. She slipped through the wrought-iron gates, past the empty bandstand and along the side of the lake, half frozen over now, a few ducks pecking at the ice.

  She reached the cafe and stood for a moment, admiring the windows, now painted a perfect shade of blue and flanked by zinc tubs spilling with winter pansies. She had the bunch of keys ready in her hand and now she began to unfasten the padlocks on the newly painted shutters, one by one, throwing the doors wide so that their bevelled panes filled with the rose and silver light from the lake.

  Inside, the tables were already decorated with crisp white antique linen cloths and little cut-glass vases awaiting the flowers she’d brought. The floorboards had been scrubbed and polished and the walls painted in the softest shade of grey and hung with colourful paintings, abstract swirls of red and ochre and cobalt blue in which it was just possible to make out the shapes of birds and trees.

  A blackboard behind the polished steel counter had been chalked up with her house specials: Yorkshire Rarebit with Cranberry Chutney, Secret Ingredient Fennel Soup, White and Pink Pepper Chocolate Truffles and her own personal favourite, Sweet Dreams Tea – an infusion of rose petals, wild mint and chamomile flowers.

  She felt a surge of pleasure travel up her spine and tingle in the back of her throat.

  There were voices, a child’s tinkling laughter, someone calling her name. She turned. Three figures stood in the open doorway, silhouetted against the December sun.

  Ella and Fabia were rubbing their gloved hands together and stamping the cold from their feet. Maadar-Bozorg was wrapped in her gigantic woollen shawl and held Grace by the hand.

  ‘We’re on our way to the airport,’ said Fabia. ‘Maadar-Bozorg and I fly out this afternoon. But we were hoping that we might warm our hands on a nice hot cup of coffee. Are we in luck?’

  Before Bryony could answer, Maadar leaned forward and from under her shawl she drew a small packet.

  ‘I need to give you this,’ she muttered in Bryony’s ear. ‘It’s the remains of an old spell. It needs to be buried deep in the
ground. I was thinking that up at Miss Mary’s old cottage might be the place. Could you do that for me, child, as soon as you get the chance?’

  Bryony smiled.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, taking the packet and dropping it into the pocket of her new white linen apron.

  Then she turned and stroked Grace’s hair. The icy morning was cold on her cheek.

  ‘Come on, Grace,’ she said. ‘Come with me. I need your help,’ and she led her over to the window and showed her how to turn the new enamelled sign to Open.

  Epilogue

  I’m standing in the clearing. The earth is damp under my bare feet and, when I look up, the sky glimmers with grey pearlescent light.

  Somewhere in the woods behind me, I can hear the first birdsong – the chirr-up, chirr-up of the blackbirds and a skylark pouring out his pure, clear notes.

  I look down and see that in amongst the mulch of old leaves, tiny new green shoots are just beginning to appear. Spring. It’s early this year.

  I wait for a moment, savouring the scent of the earth mixed with the night’s rain. Then I turn and watch as the sun breaks through the woods behind me, making the branches tremble with silver.

  Here, where the trees thin out, a path opens in the woodland floor, the trampled leaves and moss curving gently ahead of me, sequinned with raindrops.

  I begin to walk forward, feeling my way carefully over the wet leaves. There’s a faint rustling in the branches above my head and then . . . Am I imagining it? That flash of red and green in the shadows? The flicker of tail feathers? I go faster, my fingertips brushing the smooth trunks of the birch trees, but there’s only a pigeon pecking at the ground and a voice calling me softly, insistently: Mamma, Mamma, Ma-mma . . .

  When I open my eyes, the sun is streaming though the crack in the bedroom curtains. The sheets have somehow wound themselves around my legs and Grace is sitting on my feet, watching me with those big blue-grey eyes.